He makes these people sound like superheroes. All I bring to the job is Bob and the tendency to say the wrong thing at the wrong time.
“What about Nico?” I do my best to sound casual, but his name feels weirdly charged coming out of my mouth.
“Nico is my profiler,” Donny says. “One of the most naturally talented I’ve ever worked with, and that includes twenty years at the Bureau.”
I trace my fingers along the handle of my mug, hoping I look nonchalant instead of like a very interested tomato. “What’s a profiler?”
“Someone who studies behavioral patterns to understand the psychology of violent criminals,” Donny says. “Most profilers can give you educated guesses about where a killer might strike next, and how. The good ones can tell you whether you’re looking for an organized offender or a disorganized one, figure out what kind of stressor might have triggered the violence, whether the killer knew the victim. Nico can walk through a crime scene and tell you not just what happened, but understand what emotions were driving them. He can predict their behavior so accurately that sometimes he finds them on intuition alone.”
Nico could figure out what went through Stanley Daniels’s head that morning. Not that it matters. I couldn’t ask that of him. Not when he barely tolerates my presence.
Do I even want to know?
What if the answer is worse than not knowing? What if there’s no reason at all, just random chance and bad luck? Or what if thereisa reason, and it’s something about my family, that made us targets?
Who am I kidding? No amount of understanding why is going to change the fact that they’re dead and I’m not.
Griffin appears in the doorway. He’s wearing a red T-shirt and gray sweatpants riding low on his hips. He braces one hand on the frame, giving me a small nod before turning to Donny. “You wanted to see me?”
“I’m assigning you a new responsibility,” Donny says.
“Good,” Griffin says. “All my responsibilities are so old and haggard.”
“Eden needs to begin her physical training,” Donny says. “She will be joining you every morning.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. Griffin’s expression shifts from concern to uninhibited delight.
“Every morning?” he asks.
Donny nods.
I try to figure out how to say this without sounding like I’m chickening out. “Is this going to be one-on-one? Or like, a group thing?”
I’m not opposed to working out—the construction job made me stronger, although I’m nowherenearstrong enough to attempt the move Nico used on William Caine in the parking lot. I just don’t want to work out with Griffin. Not because he’s not a good guy, he clearly is, but because I can barely run two minutes without wanting to vomit, and the thought of being that vulnerable and letting anyone witness how pathetic I am makes me want to grab Bob and escape to my car.
“Individual attention would be best,” Donny says.
Griffin’s grin stretches wider, and I get the same feeling I used to get when I had to run the mile during gym class.
“Could you, just, give me the exercises you want me to do, and I can do them alone?”
Griffin folds his arms in a way that makes his biceps bulge against his sleeves. “I promise I’ll go easy on you. The first day.”
“How generous.”
“I’m a generous guy,” he says. “You’ll learn that about me.”
“I’ll leave you in Griffin’s capable hands.” Donny waves me toward the door with his newspaper. “Come find me after you’re finished.”
I drain my coffee and step out of the office. Griffin reaches across me to pull the door closed behind us, and I catch the sharp, clean smell of his body wash. My brain helpfully notes that he smells good, which is not information I need right now.
“So.” Griffin pauses. “Ready to see what you’re made of?”
“Like, right this second?”
“Unless you’ve got something better to do.” He takes a long swig from his water bottle, his eyes not leaving mine. “But I’m guessing you don’t.”
He’s right. Obviously. Getting stronger is part of the job I signed up for, and learning how to fight ghosts apparently starts with learning how to do a proper burpee. I’m not afraid of hard work. Or of being sore.
